


Excerpts of Various, White-Stained Histories

by WAOW



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Balls Worship, Foot Jobs, Human/Monster Romance, M/M, Masturbation, Omorashi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Semi-Public Sex, Tentacle Monsters, Wet Dream, Wetting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-09 23:28:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 7,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20518205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WAOW/pseuds/WAOW
Summary: Semi-illustrated NSFW snippets set in the world of Fallen London - illustrations provided by a friend. Sometimes updated.





	1. Night at the Opera [Tentacles]

**Author's Note:**

> The characters featured are [our OCs](https://flchars.weebly.com/) from the setting. Specific kinks featured will be tagged by chapter.  
[Link to artist twitter.](https://twitter.com/millerotic)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raistlyn and Athoth's opera date takes a saucy turn.

"Stop it, Ath," Raistlyn murmurs bemusedly, leaning back into the large, plush seat they share. "I bought us this booth so we could enjoy the show better, not so you could-"

His voice hitches as the tentacle coiled round his cloak lifts it into the air, allowing its brethren to trail beneath—a sudden shock of cold, in the fabric's almost-sweltering heat. They curl wetly upon his slime-soaked body, suckers latching and releasing playfully as they cling to his skin: his trembling thigh, his tensed belly, and—he lets out a soft huff—the tenderness of his flaccid shaft. This the tentacles pay particular attention to, hefting its weight almost playfully. They brush across his sack, exploring the crannies of his groin; curling under the head of his cock to cradle its rapidly hardening form, twisting thick as they coil round it again and again and again.

His lover does not respond; his facial appendages curl in what can only be called amusement—but still he does not turn to look at him, innocently admiring the resplendent lights below. A dark green heat rises upon Raistlyn's face; yet as he tries to protest, the tentacles grow tighter in their slick, pumping motions, sweetening his voice into a whine. Still they twist tighter, the suction of its cups wrenching unbearably at the desperate rigidity of his shaft, the softness of his foreskin clinging to them as they snap away and stick again. Still his lover ignores him, to gasp at the show below—glancing back at him with the occasional guileless look; as if deaf to the moist squelching coming so loudly from Raistlyn’s crotch, as if it weren't his appendages trying so hard to wring his lover’s cock dry like a rag.

Below them the sight is beautiful indeed—the singer's voice rises in a powerful aria, trilling in its notes—yet to him it is all a slurry of images; the only sensation he can focus on is the wet, persistent suction upon his cock. It relents, slightly, to cradle his balls—pooled with slime and copious amounts of arousal trailing down from the helm of his glans. The tentacles lather his fluids deep into his own skin, rolling his orbs to and fro in a playful, rocking motion. Another slithers lazily upwards through hot and clammy skin to alight upon a nipple, tweaking gently at the hardened nub of flesh; another travels downwards, between his quivering thighs, stroking past his perineum to poke teasingly at his twitching entrance.

He squirms in his seat, head-tentacles curled tight upon themselves, teeth gritted so as to remain silent; toes curled and legs tensed as his lover continues toying with his body. Slime sweats in fat droplets down his neck, and his vision blurs; all he can hear is the soft, muffled squelching—so easily his lover elicits a twitch here or a lurch there; so familiar the planes of his slender body are to his lover that soon, despite himself, he finds his forehead pressed desperately onto the railing, fingers gripped tight into the wood, panting high and rapid.

In the polished-wood scent, and the darkness of the nook of his arm, the music seems loud, almost raucous. He looks below and shivers; confronted by the sight of his slick, inhuman shaft flushed a deep sea-green, its ridges entwined lovingly into his lover's roiling tentacles, coiling with a life of its own and sinking deeper into the entanglement. The tentacle upon his shaft softly peels back the skin shrouding his head, curling round the base of his sensitive, pre-soaked glans, tip teasing inquisitively at its slit—he groans deeply, shuddering, as he feels the tide of pleasure ripple through his body and rise to a brink -

"Sirs?" From behind - a voice, low and elegant. "I pray you are enjoying your evening. Would you like any refreshments?"

He freezes in his seat, quivering silently. The music suddenly seems so far away: muted, under the dull roar of rushing blood in his ears. At the brink of orgasm the tentacles had sealed the valve of his climax shut; curling tighter, snaking deep into his cock, blocking its trembling wave with a strange and scraping pressure. He shuts his eyes, jaw tensing, as he summons every ounce of his willpower so as to keep the breathlessness out his voice—

"We're fine. Thank you." His voice comes out clipped, almost harsh. He prays the man does not hear his ragged breathing. He prays for his cloak to be large enough, and their positions close enough, for the butler not to notice anything amiss. Below them, the music is low and tense: the tenuous bridge, before the final chorus.

"Very well, sir. Do please tell us if that changes." The soft pattering of steps, departing; he barely hears it, ears ringing, as the singer bursts into a final, glorious verse.

"Oh god." He moans, as the tentacles abruptly unfurl from his cock.

His fingers bite into the armrest, hips lurching into the air as jet after jet of white spray loudly into his cloak, darkening the already wet fabric. Back arched, he almost slides from his seat in incoherent pleasure, legs senseless, lips parted in a silent cry—if not for his lover's firm grasp to hold him in place, stroking him gently upon the curve of his slime-soaked neck as the waves of pleasure slowly subside along the quieting echos below.

"Ath," he pants afterwards, sunken almost bonelessly into the chair in that warm, aftersex glow. "Warn me a little next time, will you?"

Athoth only smiles, finally turning to lean into his shoulder, whispering something that makes him flush once more—and they rise together in applause, as the singer takes her bow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	2. Hunter, Now Hunted [Footjobs]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack's quarry turns out to be more wily than he expected.

"Shut it, old man. Does it look like you're in a position to talk?" Fingers - so soft they might be a woman's, never-worn fingers that only pampered pansies had- caress his chin, rustling through his beard.   
  
Jack's prepared insult dies in his throat as Claude's hand curves upwards, yanking his chin, cap sliding over his face.  
  
"Not so noisy now, eh?"  
  
Though all he can see is darkness, he still can smell that strange fragrance again; one that has beguiled him for all his hunt, a constant yet teasing scent that always lingered when he arrived on the scene, seconds too late for his quarry. Now he was inundated in it, soaked in it, so close yet so far from his prize.  
  
"How does it feel to be the one hunted, hmm, o hunter?" The prize in question now taunted him, gloated from somewhere behind him, firm thighs wrapped so tightly around his head that he cannot even budge an inch.  
  
He feels a draft, down below. What was that soft pattering sound...?

  
Jack lurches in his restraints as a slippery heat engulfs his cock. That scent was overpowering, now - heated oils, oozing slowly down the shaft of his cock, pooling at his balls. And that pliant warmth - the soft pads of a foot, slowly but surely massaging the oils into him. The firmness of the monster's calves press against his chest - so tightly muscled, as would be expected from one so proficient at escape.  
  
Claude's fingers have found their way into his mouth - with a touch as if down-feather, they trace the roof of his mouth, graze the inside of his lip - faintly sweet with that fragrance he so loathed, yet had sought so tirelessly to find. He shivers. He hadn't been touched so gently, since -  
  
All he hears are the soft breaths upon his head, the wet squelching of oiled flesh; all he feels are the toes upon his shaft, rippling as they knead against his sweat and pre-greased cock; and the slow, rhythmic rocking of the hips cradled so tight around his neck - rising, again and again, to rut a cloth-covered stiffness against the back of his head. The breaths he hears are deeper, now. A toe teases the tip of his glans, coating it in more slick, squishing it gently between index and thumb.  
  
He lets out a choked breath as the greased sole pins his cock against his thigh - but he will not relent, will not show weakness, will not give this monster the satisfaction he so desires. Yet as the arch of Claude's foot pins harder, squeezing his length against the rough fabric of his trousers - he lets out an inarticulate snarl, balls drawing tight.  
  
Cum, hot and wet, spurts from his cock, splattering softly onto his thigh, an oozing warmth that he soon feels seeping in. Yet he hears soft laughter behind him - and abruptly his cock is pinned against his belly, spurting into his beard, onto his lips, cheeks held gently apart by the monster's fingers.

  
But then he feels the palm curve once more beneath his chin - and it tilts his head backwards into a deep, drowning, kiss. The monster licks Jack's lips, tasting the seed upon his tongue, sharing the hot and salty scent - and so lost is the hunter that he can no longer tell whether those are it's tendrils or a tongue-  
  
Claude's grin is wide as a cat's as the hunter's shaft, softly pulsing, firms once more between his white-stained toes. Slowly, surely - once again, he begins to pump his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	3. A Foolish Choice of Quarry [Public]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A petty criminal catches sight of a lucrative robbery prospect.

The hooded thug spits and looks furtively around him. This section of Spite was blessedly empty, at this time of day - all he sees are its cobblestones, twisting off into the distance, under the flickering green of its lamps. All is quiet, save for the occasional rustle of refuse under his feet. Under his filthy scarf the man smiles and cracks his knuckles.  
  
Just as he had been ready to give up on the day's weak haul, some senile bastard had for some reason decided to wander in here; and thankfully, senile enough to wander himself into a dead end as well. Judging by how the old man's boots had shone this would be a fat target indeed. Somehow none of the others had been smart enough to rob him first - but not to worry. He was smarter. The only possible problem would be that other man following his target - but he'd seen those hollows under his eyes. A honey addict. No fight in them. Easy to get rid of.  
  
He pauses at the entry to the alley, dark What was that distant noise? Seemed to be coming from further inside. He grunts, and pulls out his cudgel, stalking down into the alley.  
  
There, in the distance - the old man, with his back towards him. Having a piss, was he? He grins, expectant and cruel, growing closer towards the unassuming man who still does not turn around. Some kind of motion - was the old man shaking in fear? Senile old bastard, he laughs quietly to himself.  
  
Yet as he steps further he realizes something. He'd seen two men enter this alley, not one. And that noise - it didn't sound like piss. It sounded wet, squelching-  
  
"Hey gramps." A voice, low and languid. "Sorry to interrupt our session, but I think there's someone to see you."  
  
In the darkness, something pale emerges from behind the old man's figure. A face, flushed, drenched in sweat - a hand, gripped tight in its glossy black hair? And its lips, white with -  
  
The face suddenly grins wide, fluids splattering messily down onto his chest. "I'd run if I were you. Gramps doesn't like being interrupted." His eyes gleam green and sharp as if a cat's.  
  
The black figure of the old man is still. Then, a spiralling flourish of grey hair-  
  
At least, in his final moments, the thug did try to run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	4. moments, stolen upon that brink of catastrophe, when all is well yet soon not to be - an island, of peace, in the calm before the storm. [Childhood Friends]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are times where the differences between Hell Royalty and their servants are not so pronounced. A fledgling Prince's moments of happiness before the inevitable transformation.

He smiles into Astaroth’s hair, so soft and fragrant with the soaps he had rubbed into it himself, underneath the clean salt of his sweat. “You smell so good, Taro,” he murmurs, fingers playing upon the smaller’s collarbone. They find the hollow of his neck; trace upon it, thumb outlining the curve of his throat, lined with sweat, pale as cream.  
  
“You too,” Taro responds, head curled into the nook of Nocerias’ breast. Noc’s scent was a purer one: less burdened by perfumes decreed necessary by his birth. It was strong, and smelled like earthy spice; Taro nestles deeper, and gives him a lick, with his small pink tongue. Noc’s scent, so masculine in its strength, fills his mouth, spreads within his head; sending a shiver through him, from the tip of his to the curling of his toes.  
  
Noc chuckles, palm moving downwards to splay upon Taro’s chest, circling the soft little nubs of pink areolae he finds there. “So pretty, too.” His fingers trail down the taper of Taro’s hips, filigreed delicately as if by a master jeweller in the white and sticky rivulets of their seed.  
  
Taro lets out an involuntary breath, squirming upon the damp sheets below them. “Stop it, Noc,” he giggles. “You know I have to go soon.”   
  
Noc’s arms, shifting with the startings of muscle, rise to wrap Taro closer into his embrace. “Just as little longer.” Taro’s cock, soft and sticky, stirs against his thigh; and his own rises with blood, to prod into the warmth of Taro’s stomach. But to this they but smile, and close their eyes; two boys, lost within each other, enjoying the comforting press of the other’s body against their own as they drift to sleep.

He smiles into Astaroth’s hair, so soft and fragrant with the soaps he had rubbed into it himself, mixed into the clean salt of his sweat. “You smell so good, Taro,” he murmurs, fingers playing upon the smaller’s collarbone. They find the hollow of his neck; trace upon it, thumb outlining the curve of his throat, lined with sweat, pale as cream.

“You too,” Taro responds, head curled into the nook of Nocerius’ chest. Noc’s scent was a purer one: less burdened by incessant perfumes decreed necessary by birth. It was strong, and smelled like earthy spice; Taro nestles deeper, and gives him a lick, with his small pink tongue. Noc’s scent, so masculine in its strength, fills his mouth, spreads within his head; sending a shiver through him, from the tip of his head to the curling of his toes.

Noc chuckles, palm moving downwards to splay upon Taro’s chest, circling the soft little nubs of pink areolae he finds there. “So pretty, too.” His fingers trail down the taper of Taro’s hips, filigreed delicately as if by a master jeweller in the white and sticky rivulets of their seed.

Taro lets out an involuntary breath, squirming upon the damp sheets below them. “Stop it, Noc,” he giggles. “You know I have to go soon.”

Noc’s arms, shifting with the barest hints of muscle, rise to wrap Taro closer into his embrace. “Just as little longer.”

Taro’s cock, soft and sticky, stirs against Noc's thigh; whose own rises with blood, to prod into the warmth of Taro’s stomach. But to this they but smile, and close their eyes; two boys, lost within each other, enjoying the comforting press of the other’s body against their own as they drift to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	5. A Most Unusual Discovery, Concerning a Tie and Its Constrictions [Mild choking]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reporter's high-born lover learns something new about his companion.

As he walks past, a firm hand cups his behind; his hat tumbles from his head as he is yanked down onto a lap.  
  
"What- what was that for?" Nectarine says, smoothing his hair indignantly.  
  
"Come on, Necty." Forth grins at his lover, lounging in his plush chair. "I've had so much paperwork today I'm positively drowning in it! Spare some time for me, will you?" A hand flourishes at the mass of black-scrawled papers before him; his other hand, however, is caressing the curve of Nectarine's ass, squeezing it ever so gently.  
  
"I love how your nose flushes so, Necty," Forth whispers, drawing him closer. "I could eat it right up, that adorable little face of yours." His breath is thick with the taste of tobacco, eyes wide with desire, staring deep into Nectarine's own.  
  
"I-" Nectarine yelps as Forth gently rolls his knee upwards - nudging Nectarine's cock with a gentle but insistent pressure, squishing his balls gently up against his shaft; which, despite himself, hardens rapidly under Forth's thigh. The languid smile upon the young lord's face spreads across from ear to ear, and he sinks further, back into his chair.

  
He folds his arms in his lap, admiring his lover's avoidant look. The tips of Nectarine's ears, peeking from his unruly brown hair, have long gone bright scarlet; and as Forth continues to rock that cloth-veiled hardness against his knee, the reporter's accompanying pants are as music to his ears. With a lazy hand, he strokes the growing outline in his own trousers; watching with glee at the small bead of wetness growing slowly upon Nectarine's bulge, straining obscenely in his pants. He nudges it, left to right, savoring the soft squish of the sack, the rigid length rolling back and forth.  
  
"I really must go," Nectarine shakily gasps, attempting to stand from Forth's lap - trying with all his might to ignore the wet, squishing feeling down below as Forth's knee presses against his cock, kneading the rough fabric of his now slimy underwear back and forth across his pulsing cockhead.  
  
"Ah! But where are you going, my dear Nectarine?" Lazily, a pale hand closes around the reporter's tie and *pulls*.  
  
Nectarine goes utterly stiff. His chest heaves; a tiny, wheezing breath escapes; and a redness spreads on his cheeks.  
  
Forth's eyes widen as he realizes his lover is _trembling_. The bead of wetness suddenly spreads - and now glob after glob of white comes oozing through the fabric, staining deep as they run down his legs. Nectarine's mouth hangs slightly apart, staring blindly into the ceiling, drool trickling from a corner of his mouth - and now he's the one riding the young lord's leg, fingers clutched desperately onto his thigh, humping away almost mindlessly, rutting his slimy bulge deep into Forth's now ruined trousers.  
  
"Well!" Forth exclaims, his own cock now straining painfully within its confines. "That was something."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> milly was too embarrassed to show the illustration for this one :'(


	6. A Show For One [Omorashi]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A stage magician delivers an unexpected show to his rival.

"Get out of my way," he mutters as he barges into the dressing room, pushing aside the man lounging in its entry. His cape flaps behind him, velvet folds fluttering in his wake, the dying echoes of applause following behind.  
  
"Oh? Are you not going to even give me a greeting, Basilicus?" The man, dressed in an immaculate suit, stands—voice low, fake-wounded. "I am your rival, no? Insult me, at least."   
  
Basil runs into his arm headfirst. "Dumb frenchman," he spits, rising to find the larger man's face smug with amusement. "Go away Valentin, I have no time for your comedies now."  
  
"Oh? Something wrong?" Val's smile curls further upward his moustachioed face.

Basil grits his teeth as the man's infuriating cologne violates his nose again. He attempts to push him aside; but Valentin stands firm, stolid before the slighter man's ineffective attempts.

"You look very red. Maybe something going wrong with your performance? Very unfortunate, monsieur."

Val steps closer, face nearing Basil's own. Basil bites down a groan as sweat trickles down the back of his neck; he has no time for these mockeries, these playfights of rivalry they played in between shows. He fidgets beneath his cloak, legs tensed and quivering, directing a spiteful gaze towards the dolt of a man. But still the idiot does not leave.  
  
"I knew of your sabotage attempt, imbecile." Basil's words are cut and hurried; face beaded with sweat. "Get out of my way!" He tugs at the larger man's arm, beating at him, the pressure in him building up to a trembling apex—but still the man does not budge. "Get away before—aah—"  
  
He stumbles backwards, suddenly, as the first few trickles of warmth run down his thigh. "Go away," he whispers through gritted teeth, voice losing its former bite. He falls against a wall, arms wrapped around himself—legs unsteady beneath him, nudging against each other ineffectively to halt what he knew was coming. No; he would not—he could not let this happen, certainly not before this damn idiot whose head was filled with cotton—  
  
"Hm?" Val quirks an eyebrow. "Are you sick, monsieur?"  
  
"I said GO AWAY," Basil shouts hoarsely, hair sodden against his temples with sweat. Yet the trickling grows—tears well within his eyes—and then it is too late.

His bladder empties itself utterly. It fills his undergarments with warm piss, flowing in thick streams down his already clammy, trembling legs. He crumples to the floor, curling up on himself—all he can feel now is the hot liquid soaking his trousers—and that blessed, blessed relief, sending shuddering convulsions through his thighs. He sinks into it, drowning into the sensation, squelching against the floor as his wet trousers rub against it.  
  
"I don't-" Val stops, and sniffs. A pungent scent was filling the room, now.  
  
Basil lets out a low groan, eyelids fluttering, tears running loose down his cheeks. Val steps closer—and in the dim light of the dressing room, the dark trail of fluid trickling from between the magician's legs tells him all he needs to know.  
  
Basil shudders silently in deep, wracking sobs; pants stained dark as he continues to piss out his last before the person he hated the most in the world, the last shreds of his dignity crumbling away into utter nothing. He closes his eyes, chest hollow and absent of feeling. He was an object of ridicule, now. The word would spread. Nobody would every pay ever again to come see the great and mighty magician who had pissed himself, like a child.  
  
"Monsieur-" Val takes another step.  
  
Basil flinches. "I said go away..." he groans, legs splayed, head sunk low into his chest. He desperately paws at his piss-soaked groin in an attempt to halt the flow, pale fingers clenching fabric as a drowning man might do a lifeline. Yet in that cage of uncomfortably warm and sodden cloth, his cock stirs against the stimulation - moist glans squishing against the coarse and sticky fabric. It scrapes almost painfully, his cock having poked out from his undergarments, the abrasive cloth of his trousers tight against it—but still he squeezes, heedless of the pain, wishing despairingly for it all to stop.

Yet despite his efforts, his shaft slowly rises, pulsing with blood to strain in painful rigidity against his fingers. The broken magician lets out another sob, heat rushing to his face; on his skin he can feel Valentin's gaze upon him like hot needles. It bores through him, into his head, through his layers of dignity and pretension—his fingers bite into his palm, seeking pain yet not enough—he claws at his thighs, wanting to think about anything else, anything else but this perversion, this indignity, his carefully constructed layers all now shed away to reveal what he knew had always been beneath—this miserable self, this disgusting self, this wretched self that had never been fit for awe but mockery, instead. He sobs as he withdraws into the fetal position, curling so tight into himself he could almost shrink away and die.  
  
Yet as he lifts his hand from his crotch he lets out a broken cry—and, without warning, in great shuddering thrusts of his hips—a white fluid wells and spurts from between his fingers. This comes far more forceful than the piss before—so many nights had he neglected himself in pursuit to best his rival, always toiling away for the next spectacle to present. So many times he had stirred beneath; forcing him to press it down, gritting his teeth before it softened by sheer force of will. Clenching his eyes as he tried to drown out the images in his head—that moustachioed grin, so disgustingly smug—

And now his seed splatters loudly onto his puddle of piss, globs of murky white dispersing within the darker yellow. Quivering thrusts slowing in motion as his cock begins to soften, Basil sinks onto the floor; exhausted and drenched, in sweat and piss and cum. He stares into the distance, eyes dull, glasses askew; no longer with the strength in him to do or mutter anything else; not even to wipe his hand as it smears against the floor, filthy and dripping with his own fluids.  
  
Silently, Val bends over him, and places his coat on the trembling magician.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	7. A Servant's Reverie [Masturbation]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nocerius tries - and fails - to sneakily deal with some difficult feelings.

He tugs faster, hunched into himself within the darkness, those foul and illicit thoughts fluttering vainly like moths only to vanquish themselves upon the broiling fires of his lust. Snatches of paleness, half-seen, under candlelight - the heat of his skin, the softness of his wrist - slips of memories hidden away so furtively, only now to be ransacked and thrown as fuel unto the furnace. His arm protests with the startings of a cramp, held so long and so rapidly within the sameness of position - there was nothing to do about it, he had to be back soon so that his liege did not suspect his depravity - he huffs, pumps faster, grip painfully tight upon the rapid in-out-in-out of dark-flushed glans from saliva-stained foreskin, his cock finally given attention after having strained so achingly within his trousers for the entire day.  
  
In the dark and empty room, his ragged panting is heard by him alone; his just-combed white hair matted deep with sweat, beads of it rolling down his neck to stain his uniform, already rumpled in his haste, half-slid down his trembling legs just enough for him to paw at his cock. He'd have to be faster, be back to freshen himself before the liege noticed his absence - his other hand comes down to wrap around that warm stiffness of his, both hands entwining around it's slickness and thrusting faster - and now here was the beginnings of that rumbling spark, rousing from deep within -  
  
Too late he hears the creak of the door; so preoccupied with his own self that it isn't until he hears the shuffle of shoe against floor that he realizes what is to occur - that bounding crash into him from behind, his hands rising to his mouth to halt a shout of horror -  
  
And below him, from behind, pale fingers alight upon his cock - so soft, upon that painful stiffness - his moans of anguish, barely muffled behind his fingers, as his balls draw tight against himself, juddering hips spewing forth rope after rope of white from between his liege's hands to splatter, loudly, upon the polished-wood floor.  
  
So strange, a distant part of his mind thinks, as the rest of his body has gone utterly dead with shock. So pretty is the velvet that cups the curve of his liege's wrist; yet somehow it is those glistening trails of cum, oozing so slowly down between those delicate knuckles, that he finds the more beautiful.  
  
"So that's what you were playing with," Taro murmurs, in the silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	8. I Let a Giant Bee Eat My Ass and All I Got Was This Amazing Orgasm [Rimming]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two fugitives from the Revolution of Hell have a good time on a remote island.

"My liege-" Nocerius' usually oh-so-polished voice quavers, just slightly, upon the end. "Please-"  
  
He bites down upon his lip as yet another shudder wracks his body. His pile of discarded clothes seem so far away, below him upon the bank of the lake - the waters below him shine with the bioluminescence of mushrooms, a forest of them, encircling the waters. So dizzying in its distance is the lake below him - his knuckles are gripped white upon the smooth planes of his lover's head, so lacking in its purchase - yet he bends over in another spasm of pleasure, as that seeking, prehensile wetness within him curls tighter. It caresses his innermost walls, trailing out almost tenderly, to stroke that ring of muscle between his legs; and his toes curl, head arching back, the whiteness of his flowing hair rippling against his tightly-muscled back. His cock, flushed dark and deep with arousal, lurches up once more to bap him on the stomach, leaving yet another pale droplet among others to trail down the lean curves, pooling in a small puddle within the light dusting of white.  
  
A deep hum, resonating through his thighs - amusement, rumbling low within Astaroth's monstrous, carapaced form. He does not respond to his lover, but only teases him once more with his tongue - tenderly probing at his entrance, easing its way inside. The thin, glistening tongue is slow, and almost exploratory in motion - and, judging by the copious amounts of fluid dripping from where appendage meets flesh - this has been going on for a long, long time.  
  
A soft, almost inaudible breath escapes from his lover, so small upon his head - and Taro only lounges further into the water, languorous in his actions, luxuriating in the richness of his lover's response. The silence is occasionally punctuated by the low, scraping noises of carapace against carapace - Taro's massive hand, curling against his own cock - ridged dark with slabs of armor, stabbing upwards from the water in a monument to obscenity, coated thick with dark fluids and a deep, musky scent that fills the clearing.  
  
Each trembling inhale forces yet more of that intense, intoxicating scent into Nocerius' mind - he cannot help but quiver in ecstasy, as his Master's own scent fills him so utterly. His fingers curl upon the golden plates of his lover's head - once smooth and cold, long since warmed by the heat of his thighs. And yet another bead of pre oozes from his grey cock to plop upon that yellow surface - only to slide away as he shudders once more, the tongue coiling deeper into his innermost crevices. It is as if he is an instrument, played to his lover's whims - slow, then fast, then slow, then fast-  
  
Nocerius bends, uttering a low, broken cry. His knees come together, rising from the slick surface, as sudden spurt after spurt of white fly upon his face; a thick droplet splatters upon his nose, upon his lips - and soon Noc feels the tremors below his legs intensify. A loud noise - as if the briefest snatch of waterfall - and soon a large spray of dark liquid splatters upon him as if a fountain, coating him utterly in his Master's musk and seed.  
  
In the aftermath, Noc lounges within his Master's massive arms, brought downward into a wordless cradle. Semi-erection pressing wetly against a carapaced finger, so warm and protected by by his lover's bulk, Noc gazes out into the forest with hazy eyes - finally allowing himself the barest hint of a smile - and slowly, to the low, rhythmic beat of Taro's massive heart, drifts to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> milly was too embarrassed to show the illustration for this one :'(


	9. An Elegance, Clad In Steam [Modern!AU]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The scion of a mafia family makes a proposal to his bodyguard.

"Why don't you take off your suit, Noc? Look at how you're sweating."   
  
He leans closer, fingers brushing Nocerius' fabric-clad thigh. The darker man's muscles are rigid to the touch; so tightly wound he is that the pale man's nonchalant caress elicits a nervous rippling of goosebumps upon his neck.  
  
"I-" He swallows. "That would be improper, sir."  
  
Beneath his dark spectacles his eyes are studying the ground, studiously avoiding his master - pale skin coated in a fine sheen of sweat, tattoos so iridescently vivid under the dim glow of the sauna's single lightbulb. Such beautiful work, upon such an exquisite canvas... the dark bulb of his throat bobs once more. These vile thoughts were coming far too often, lately. He tries to fill his thoughts with schedules and arrangements instead, shifting upon the bench, trousers uncomfortably tight.  
  
"Pah," Taro whispers, breath warm upon Nocerius' ear, dashing the half-formed thoughts from his mind. It smells fresh, as if freshly chewed with mint. "What's improper about unclothing in a sauna?"  
  
Nocerius prays that the steam is hiding the scorching heat he feels rising to the tips of his ears.   
  
Taro makes a soft noise - and despite himself, Nocerius glances over, just for a second. His master's eyes glimmer under the lighting, wide and inviting - a bead of sweat trickles down the hollow of his throat, so tortuously slow, riding the fine curves of his collarbone, shifting beneath pale skin.   
  
And beneath - a strangled noise emerges from Nocerius' throat. His master's cock, hanging almost brazenly before him - framed in a soft dusting of dark hair, flushed so delicately with pink, glans cradled by a slip of barely translucent skin. Does something glimmer, at its tip? Nocerius does not know, for he has already torn away his eyes, mind incoherent, pleading for forgiveness. This sight was not meant for him - almost ethereal, in its beauty. For him to sully it with his eyes was an indefensible transgression.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	10. Breaktime [Quickies]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things never change. Rufus' libido is one of them.

"Hey," he whispers, fingers curled upon your neck, sweaty with the false-summer's heat. "Could we do this faster? Gramps might come back from break soon." His eyes flick towards the shuttered door.   
  
To that you only give another thrust, hip against hip, your balls slapping loudly against his own. The force of it causes the entire desk itself to judder; stacks of paper, rumpled and stained, careen across its surface; coffee rattles in a mug, spilling droplets upon the man below you. But it seems he is too far gone to even notice - eyes rolled into his head, greased hair slick with sweat - he bends forward, pressing his lips against yours so forcefully that you almost taste blood. His clothes are rumpled in the haste of your affair; his trousers, hiked upwards just barely, to reveal that hint of skin and give access to that hot and inviting juncture, flexing so tightly even now against your cock as you hammer away. Each thrust of your hips forces yet another, breathy moan from his lips into yours; his fingers twisted desperately in your hair, pale ankles rolling against your shoulders, in your frantic, sweatsoaked, lovemaking.

  
The air of the once-musty office is now thick with the musk of sex; grunts and moans fill the air, to the sound of slapping flesh. His cock, pale and flushed and dripping with pre, jounces stiffly between your bellies - leaving dark stains upon your shirts - and you bend further, pressing him into the desk now, fingers biting into the small of his back as you pound him into the hardness of the wood. His moans continue to rise both in pitch and in volume, until at last you feel that rising tide - your balls clench tight against you - and you press into his hips, as rope after rope of warmth spurts from you into the man below.   
  
He relents, at last, releasing you from his grasp, falling from your embrace to fall back onto his desk, black hair a sweat-mussed fan behind his head, lips red and sticky with drool from his aggressive kisses. Your seed oozes slowly in a thick, pale stream from the raw pinkness of his still flexing asshole, forming a small puddle below. Yet still, his cock glistens with unfulfilled arousal - bobbing slightly between his legs, to the rhythm of his now-slowing heartbeat.   
  
"Ah," he warns, holding up a finger from his exhausted repose as you gesture between his legs. "That's for gramps." He grins. "But thanks for that. Now scram, before he gets back."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	11. Snaileater [Ball Worship]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another scene between the two magicians - this time it's Basiliscus who gets the upper hand.

"Go on," Basil commands, fingers twisting tight into the glossy black hair of the man kneeling before him, grinding the dark-bearded face deeper into his crotch.  
  
Val is silent, staring upwards, as he continues to lap away at the other man's balls. They roll across his lips, coated in his saliva; supple and soft upon his tongue as he suckles each individual orb exhaustively clean of their faint-salt taste. Upon his nose lies the other man's cock; warm and pulsing with blood, drooling a small trail of clear fluid down his mustache. Oh, but how delectable it smells, that quivering stiffness poking at his forehead - and Val, despite himself, cannot help but sneak his tongue to taste it.

  
"Ah?" Basil tuts, smushing the man's face into his groin once more, pale thighs clench him tighter, heedless of the bristly beard-hairs. "Did I say you could do that? Filthy snail eater, of course you'd want to taste it." He grins, lips twisting almost cruelly below his silvery glasses. "You're not worthy of it, frenchman. You're only fit to polish my balls."  
  
With a push, he thrusts the man from below him, black-socked calves untwining to allow Val to fall back into startled disarray. He stares down, with faint amusement - lounged upon the couch, the careless unbuttoning of his shirt frames the fine bones of his neck, glistening with sweat. The soft, pale curve of his belly leading down to that faint dusting of brown - then his cock, bobbing gently before him, above the plumpness of drool-sheened balls, coated so tenderly with the ministrations of Val's tongue. Glans flushed angrily red, a long strand of gleaming fluid strains from its tip - then snaps, to plop down upon the sofa below.  
  
"Well? Go." Basil's curt voice breaks him from his trance. "Don't you have a clock or something to fiddle with?" He flicks him away dismissively - watching silently, lips curling higher in satisfaction, as the man struggles to leave with some measure of dignity - an effort somewhat hampered by his monstrous, dark-tipped bulge, straining against his trousers with every step he takes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	12. Sweet Dreams Are Made of Pre [Wet Dreams]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After weeks of deliberate misunderstandings, Taro's plan comes to fruition.

Ridges of carapace carve deep grooves into the soil as Taro's monstrous, wasplike body tries to remain silent; at least, as silent as one can be, with such a hulking mass as his. His many-segmented limbs fold and flex as he tries to find himself a more comfortable position.  
  
Below him, his servant twists and turns; restless, in his shifting dreams. His greyskinned face, so usually placid and smooth, is pinched uneasily; cheeks flushed with dark sable, eyelids fluttering with unknown sights. His lips, half parted in slumber, twitch, slightly; yet another bead of sweat rolls down his temple, the cascade of his white hair cast in disarray beneath him. His fingers tense and release sporadically, grasping at some object of his dreams - yet Taro's many-fragmented eyes soon find what they truly seek, roving below, alighting upon that straining stiffness within his servant's trousers; cast, into barest outline, by the dimming lights of the shrooms above. From time to time it twitches yet again, almost bursting from its confinement; with it, his servant lets out a soft moan, or the hint of a whispered murmur.

  
How Taro wishes to know what his servant was seeing now, what images that were eliciting this rarity of sight; only in slumber could he be so candid, with his trembling lips, and quivering thighs. How Taro longs to just reach over, to trace that raging stiffness with the tip of a claw, to bring forth that shuddering climax; yet, as he continues grinding oh so slowly and stickily into the earth below him - his drooling, solid-chitined cock long since coated with muddy pre - he reminds himself again of the rarity of this sight, and the effort he had taken to cultivate it. Yes; he would savor this, indeed. All those weeks of deliberate misunderstandings; all those whispered sighs, lingered glances, overlong touches his servant never expected him to register. But he had. Oh, he had, with all his coaxing and unslept nights of intent observation -  
  
His reverie is interrupted as his servant rolls upon his back. His first instinct is fear - had he been discovered? But no; his servant still slumbers below him, limbs in a drowsy tangle. Eyelids twitching, the grey lips part wider, tongue slightly extending as if to taste something: and suddenly, without herald, before Taro's very eyes - a spot of darkness, slowly growing - and glob after glob of pearlescent white, oozing out the front of his servant's now stained trousers, trailing in a slow and ponderous stream to puddle between the creases of sleep-rumpled cloth.  
  
Taro goes utterly still. He stares at his servant's face, forehead flushed and sheened with sweat, so blissful now in the aftermath; he stares at the gleaming puddle, a silvery pool of white. A pale droplet rolls and falls upon a grey wrist - and Taro can no longer contain himself, tongue slithering within his maw, unfurling within the air to alight hesitantly upon that fabric -  
  
The oh-so familiar scent of musk coats his tongue in its sticky sweetness - that strong, earthen spice that heralded his most ecstatic of fantasies - filling, the entirety of his senses. And with a low, rumbling groan, limbs shuddering as they strain to sustain him - he finally cums. Jet after jet of sweltering fluid splashes against the front of his belly, soaking his creases with musk, matting his fur with viscous fury. His claws dig deep into the soil, and with all his might be tries to keep down the full extent of his incoherent, pleasured cry-  
  
Nocerius rises blearily, blinking off his haze of sleep. He looks around. All seemed quiet; the typical start, to yet another day. Yet hadn't he heard something? However as he rises to sit he winces, and looks down - to find the fabric matted tight against his crotch, and he squirms uncomfortably as his soft cock squishes against the now cold and gooey fabric, balls clinging stickily to his thighs. Heat rises to his face. This - he hadn't done this, since -  
  
He looks around rapidly. His liege was still in slumber, thankfully, the brilliant carapace of his gleaming back turned towards him. Salvageable, at least, before his master woke up, and saw. He sighs, and stands to his feet.  
  
Taro smiles to himself as he hears the slow, pattering of footsteps away from the clearing, chitined fingers lazily tracing the ridge of his dripping, armor-slabbed cock - returning, again and again, to that just-happened scene. The entire front of his carapace was now filthy with cum and soil - his thoughts turn apologetic as he imagines the effort Noc would have to go through to clean it all.  
  
Yet, as the eventual tendrils of sleep come to claim its second victim at last, he congratulates himself, slipping into slumber, how all those weeks of self-thwarted pleasure - how all those weeks of arduous, self imposed control - had, in the end, been worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


End file.
